


Medicine

by araliya



Series: The Siken Diaries [5]
Category: Glee RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 14:38:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14114505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/araliya/pseuds/araliya
Summary: A series of letters.





	Medicine

**Author's Note:**

> Medicine - Daughter

_There’s smashed glass glittering everywhere like stars. It’s a Western, Henry,_  
_it’s a downright shoot-em-up. We’ve made a graveyard out of the bone white afternoon._  
_It’s another wrong-man-dies scenario_  
_and we keep doing it, Henry, keep saying  until we get it right…_  
_but we always win and we never quit, see, we’ve won again, here we are at the place_  
_where I get to beg for it_  
_where I get to say  Please, for just one night, will you lay down next to me, we can leave our_  
_clothes on, we can stay all buttoned up?_  
_or will I say_  
_Roll over and let me fuck you till you puke, Henry, you owe me this much, you can indulge me_  
_this at least, can’t you?  but we both know how it goes. I say  I want you inside me_  
_and you hold my head underwater, I say I want you inside me_  
_and you split me open with a knife. I’m battling monsters, half-monkey, half-tarantula,_  
_I’m pulling you out of the burning buildings and you say  I’ll give you anything._  
_But you never come through._  
_Give me bullet power. Give me power over angels. Even when you’re standing up_  
_you look like you’re lying down, but will you let me kiss your neck, baby? Do I have to_  
_tie your arms down?_  
_Do I have to stick my tongue in your mouth like the hand of a thief, like a burglary_  
_like it’s just another petty theft? It makes me tired, Henry. Do you see what I mean?_  
_Do you see what I’m getting at?_  
_You swallowing matches and suddenly I’m yelling  Strike me. Strike anywhere._  
_I swear, I end up feeling empty, like you’ve taken something out of me, and I have to search_  
_my body for the scars, thinking_  
_Did he find that one last tender place to sink his teeth in?   I know you want me to say it, Henry,_  
_it’s in the script, you want me to say  Lie down on the bed, you’re all I ever wanted_  
_and worth dying for too_  
_but I think I’d rather keep the bullet this time. It’s mine, you can’t have it, see,_  
_I’m not giving it up. This way you still owe me, and that’s_  
_as good as anything._  
_You can’t get out of this one, Henry, you can’t get it out of me, and with this bullet_  
_lodged in my chest, covered with your name, I will turn myself into a gun, because_  
_it’s all I have,_  
_because I’m hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own. I’ll be your_  
_slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this_  
_bullet inside me_  
_‘cause I couldn’t make you love me and I’m tired of pulling your teeth. Don’t you see, it’s like_  
_I’ve swallowed your house keys, and it feels so natural, like the bullet was already there,_  
_like it’s been waiting inside me the whole time._  
_Do you want it? Do you want anything I have? Will you throw me to the ground_  
_like you mean it, reach inside and wrestle it out with your bare hands?_  
_If you love me, Henry, you don’t love me in a way I understand._  
_Do you know how it ends? Do you feel lucky? Do you want to go home now?_  
_There’s a bottle of whiskey in the trunk of the Chevy and a dead man at our feet_  
_staring up at us like we’re something interesting._  
_This is where the evening splits in half, Henry, love or death. Grab an end, pull hard,_  
_  
and make a wish._

__-Richard Siken, Wishbone._ _

 

 

Dear Mom,

 

You ask how I am, but I think you ask the wrong question. It doesn’t really matter how I am, not when he’s hurting so. It is one thing to make a mistake not even knowing you’ve made it, but to feel the burn of regret even years later can tear a man apart. I try to tell him that he was just a boy when he did it- he couldn’t have known any better. He thought he was sealing his future by signing on the dotted line. Not his death sentence.

 

You tell me all I can do is stand by and love him, but how can I when he refuses to let me?

 

I read him that passage from my book, Mom, and he thinks I don’t know but he pretended to go to the bathroom and when he came back his eyes were red.  

 

All I can think about is how when he was crying, he chose the company of the cold, white tiles instead of me.

 

Love,

Chris.

 

***

 

Dear Mom,

 

I’m writing from New York, and it’s freezing. These trailers have hardly any insulation and I swear I can practically see the cold seeping in from under the metal door.

 

Darren’s asleep on my legs, and they’re going kind of numb. Today’s filming really knocked him about a bit, I think. I knew as soon as he read the scripts that he wasn’t okay with it. The characters- they’re our little alter egos. They’re supposed to be untouchable.

 

Darren doesn’t like that they’ve marred them in that way. I suppose I understand where he’s coming from. Why escape to fiction when fiction’s no better than reality?

 

Anyway, I’d best go now. I hope it’s okay that I keep these letters to what I can’t say when you call me.

 

It feels better when I write things down. Things make more sense that way.

 

Love,

Chris.

 

***

 

Dear Mom,

 

I don’t know how to say this without sounding like the most lovesick idiot you’ve ever known:

 

He wrote a song for me.

 

(I won’t add all the exclamation marks after that, but I’ll let you imagine them. Hint: there are lots of them.)

 

It was beautiful, Mom. He called me from the stage to play it for me. I genuinely think he wrote it that morning.

 

My words aren’t working at all, sorry. I don’t think I can form any actual proper sentences at the moment.

 

Anyway, you ask me if I’m happy every time you write, and here is your answer, Mom.

 

He makes me the happiest man alive.

 

Love,

Chris.

 

***

 

Dear Mom,

 

I hope you’re not keeping these letters.

 

I hope I don’t have to find them in a shoebox somewhere.

 

I’ll cry if I do, Mom, especially if I’ve lost him by then.

 

Love,

Chris.

 

***

 

Dear Mom,

 

If you’re wondering why I missed your call last night, now you know why.

 

There was a ring.

 

You can guess what I said.

 

(I’m writing this to you instead of calling you to tell you because this is really the loveliest thing anyone could write in a letter. Keep this one, I think?)

 

Love,

Chris.

 

P.S. Here are all the exclamation marks that I couldn’t keep out of my writing:

 

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

P.P.S. Don’t you dare cry, Mom. Darren did enough of it when I said yes.


End file.
